Sparks
by Ione
Summary: 73 Hunger Games. 2 Quarter Quells. 1,776 Tributes. 73 Victors. Though Katniss Everdeen was the match to light revolution's flame, she wasn't the first. Other tributes before her fought to give their deaths meaning, to save their friends, to change the world. These are their stories. COMPLETE.
1. District Three - Female

**District Three – Female – 16th** **Hunger Games**

"What are these?"

Marcella sniffs. "They're called _gloves._ "

Circel rolls her eyes. Her stylist has been snooty ever since discovering that her female tribute was an underweight fourteen-year-old with scars on her hands and only seven fingers. The evening gown she designed—a sleeveless cupcake explosion of pink chiffon—puts all Circel's "deformities" on grotesque display.

According to Marcella, this is Circel's fault. As though she _wants_ to work in a power plant with inadequate safety gear. As though she refuses skin grafts when there isn't a surgeon in the hospital to manage the operation. As though she enjoys having people in the Capitol stare at her hands with that nauseating mixture of pity and disgust.

Yeah. It's all her fault.

"All right," Marcella gives a final tug to the lacing on the bodice and examines what little cleavage Circel has to offer, "I suppose that's the best I should expect. Put the gloves on."

The white satin catches and pulls on the pebbled skin of her fingers. "No," she says, and tosses them aside.

"We haven't any time," Marcella tries to wheedle but only manages to sound fretful as teakettle steam, "Put them on, there's a good girl. Don't you want to look pretty for the cameras?" She takes up the gloves and tries to wiggle them over Circel's clenched fists.

" _No_ ," she puts her hands behind her back, shielding her butchered hand. "Everyone's seen them already. You _wanted_ them to. No one's gonna be fooled now because you've padded the fingers."

"Young lady," she sighs, "This is _strategy._ We have already gotten as much sympathy as we are likely to get from your...deformity. People don't want to be reminded of misery _all the time_. They want to know that you're worth their sponsorship. And that means looking beautiful, elegant—"

"And whole," she finishes bitterly. Tears sting at the corners of her eyes and two handlers rush forward to dab them away.

In the chaos, Marcella rolls the gloves up her arms and adjusts them deftly. The heavy fabric itches. Circel scratches and the stylist slaps her hands away.

"Leave it," she says, stepping back. "I wish we could have gotten dispensation for prosthesis, but these will do. Just keep still, and if you need to gesture, use your other hand. Are you ready?"

She nods; jaw tense, wired shut.

"Good. Now remember, tonight is all about showing your best side. Smile," Marcella demonstrates with a full mouth of teeth bright as pearls, "be gracious. Be grateful."

Circel holds back a snort. Nerves make her clench her fists; the padded fingers slide free. She jerks them back into place. After three years of learning to look at her hands without disgust, she can't bear to see the lie.

But there is no time. Already she can hear the female tribute from District Two. In less than five minutes, she's walking onstage.

Crassus—dressed in a blazing white tuxedo and violently green wig—meets her with a handshake and a kiss, his touch careful. There's a flash in his eyes that tells her he knows about Marcella's deception and won't expose it. Somehow that isn't a comfort.

"My, my," he takes her by the left hand and spins her around, billowing chiffon whipping against his legs, "but you look spectacular tonight! Just like a fairy princess, right folks?"

The audience cheers, a few wolf-whistles shrilling above the roar. The noise and the lights are overwhelming, oppressive; she loses her balance. Dizzy and disoriented, Circel plops into her seat with a thump. Adrenaline surges. Her fingers itch like crazy and only at the last second does she remember not to scratch.

Defying Marcella was easy. Defying an audience of ten thousand seems impossible.

She swallows.

"So, Circel. Quite a change from District Three, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she stammers, "Yes. Um...the Capitol is lovely," _be gracious. Smile._

She smiles but can't think of a thing to say.

Crassus helps her. "You must be familiar with it by reputation. I hear you work at the _biggest_ power plant in all of District Three, supplying power right to the Capitol!"

The audience applauds on cue, but Circel can see that she's losing them. There's nothing special about her, nothing to draw their fleeting attention. Nothing separates her from the other tributes.

Except...

She pulls off the gloves, sighing as her sweating arms cool in the frigid air. "Yes," she says, ignoring the panicked roll of Crassus' eyes, "I do. Ever since I was ten."

"That must be fascinating work," he rushes on, "And I have to ask—"

"I was eleven when I lost my fingers," she rolls over him. Her words reach through the restless mumble of the audience and there is quiet in the auditorium. Circel spreads her hand on the satin, smoothing gently over the the brutal knobs of thumb, index, and middle finger.

"I was sent to repair a transformer and forgot to shut off the current. I only touched it for a second, but that was more than enough.

"My hand swelled up so fast I thought it was going to explode, and I don't remember what happened after, but the plant doctor saved my life. And I'm grateful. Small price to pay, isn't it?" she throws up her hand, raises it high; there are gasps and muffled sobs at the sight.

"I'm alive," she smiles. "Not for very much longer, though. Isn't it funny?"

For the first time, she looks at the crowd. Her hand doesn't waver or drop.

 **The female tribute from District Three died on the first day of the Games.**

 **She was killed by the male tribute from District Two.**

 **The male tribute from District One was crowned victor after eight days of combat.**


	2. District Eleven - Male

**District Eleven – Male – 71** **st** **Hunger Games**

Breakfast is ready before he finishes setting the battered tin bowls and their matching warped spoons on the table. It always is. Pod's mother moves from pantry to hearth like a bird; brisk, bright, hands working magic. Pod's hands move heavily, deliberately. Blunt, bent fingers. Calloused, crossed with scars. Rough from the fields.

He could hold both his mother's narrow hands in one broad palm.

He wants to. He's scared. Their breakfast of grain mush is the same as it always is, but Pod knows today is different. His brothers and sisters are sitting quietly. Not chattering like mice. Not darting about like squirrels.

Mother scoops mush into each bowl, hands fluttering over riotous curls or smoothing down worried cheeks as she passes. She squeezes Pod's shoulder and heaps a double helping into his dish. He stirs in salt and sees a golden gleam melting oily between brown grains. She's saved their only spoon of butter for him.

They eat silently. He misses the chatter but can't think of anything to say. Pod speaks as slowly as he moves. He can't tell stories, can't crack jokes.

So he eats. Nothing distracts from how scared he is. How sad he is. How sad and scared _they_ will be when he does what he has to do. And he has to do it. Thoughts come slowly to him, but he's been planning this for years.

He knows it's right. Mother says what's right is never easy.

They walk to the Reaping together, a ragged line of seven ducks. He leads, Cecily at his elbow in case he gets lost. That happens sometimes. He doesn't know how—when he concentrates no one knows District Eleven like he does—but his thoughts just scatter. Like dandelion fluff on a breeze.

It was the horse that did it. The startled gelding trampled them, and the clever, reckless boy Pod had been was lost. He remembers that boy...his mother had sighed at his endless escapades, but she had laughed too. She had laughed because he was magic, like her.

Now there is no more laughter. His mother sighs. Sighs when a neighbor brings him home, dizzy and dehydrated because he's missed the evening bell. Sighs every year on the day that cost her a husband and a son.

Cecily tugs at his arm; time to check in. A prick of the finger brings tears to his eyes. He blinks hard and watches his brothers and sisters bear it with clenched jaws, stiff lips, hard eyes. They're so much stronger than he is.

They'll be fine. They will.

Pod walks each little one to a cluster of their friends and turns in the direction Cecily pushes him. The oldest boys are towards the back, tough and square and smoldering. He stands with them. He'd rather be with Cecily, but it's not allowed.

He stands, tough and square and frozen, through the speeches and the pageantry. He can't understand the Capitol accent, but he doesn't have to. The show is always the same.

The girls are Reaped. Cecily, Rose, and Saffron are safe. They have never taken tesserae, not once. Then the boys are Reaped. Sprout, Root, and Cane are spared.

Pod is too. Fifty-six slips of paper bear his name, yet someone else is chosen.

He sees Cecily turn to him, smile burning like a star. He holds onto that smile, willing his weak brain to keep it sacred.

And he looks away before he volunteers so he doesn't see it fade.

* * *

They don't understand. It's probably his fault; they're crying and _he's_ crying and his thoughts scatter. It was all so clear that morning. But they take him away too quickly, make him sit in that bland little room by himself, with only the memory of Root's runny nose and Saffron's bitten nails for company. If he really had a reason, he can't recall it now.

He sits. Waits. What happens after the Reaping is a mystery most boys spin wild, morbid stories about, but it's just boring. Pod would rather be doing _anything_ else...even pulling cotton.

He'll never pull cotton again. Never pick oranges, never thresh wheat. Never stumble across a hidden patch of blackberries and smuggle home a squashed, purple pocketful for the little ones. Never see an amber sunset spreading low over golden fields.

Suddenly he's on his knees, biting his knuckles, and there's sound in the room—something whuffling and groaning—like a dying horse. It's loud, louder, grating through his chest, his nose, his skull.

It's him, it's him. He can't stop. Can't breathe. Can't see.

Then there's another sound. Strong, sweet...a grapevine growing up a bare concrete wall. Singing.

Mother.

She's holding him, worn hands smoothing over his back. Singing, sighing, sobbing.

"My brave boy," she murmurs. Tears dampen his threadbare shirt. "My sweet, brave boy."

Her words shake the jumble-puzzle of his thoughts back into order. He remembers.

* * *

They all think he wants glory. It doesn't matter how often he denies it. They ignore him. Their words are too quick, their voices too sharp. They don't hear him; he can't make them understand.

Pod doesn't want glory and didn't volunteer to be brave. He just can't stand to see a little one hurt. His sister, his brother, a stranger...it doesn't matter. He is eighteen. This is his last year to help someone, to save someone.

To be magic again.

 **The male tribute from District Eleven died on the first day of the Games.**

 **He stepped off his pedestal and was killed in the resulting explosion.**

 **The female tribute from District Seven was crowned victor after thirteen days of combat.**


	3. District Ten - Male

**District Ten – Male - 5** **th** **Hunger Games**

The day of the Reaping, Ren is too weak to stand. Over the past few weeks, his father's filched a few handfuls of grain from the cattle troughs, but the gruel isn't enough to fill the concave dip of his stomach. It's been five years since the Capitol promised peace and prosperity for all, but that just means they ship away the fattest cuts of meat and get only the chipped remains in return.

Scraps aren't enough for a twelve-year-old whose body has stopped trying to grow.

His best friend Lem, a stocky boy built for driving the herds of cows that stand twice his height, carries him all the way to the courtyard in front of the Hall of Justice. Lem doesn't waver even when Ren's name is called. He drags him up the stairs and deposits him in front of the microphone.

In the heat of the sun and the glare of attention, Ren faints. He doesn't wake until a cool hand smooths over his face and a soft voice clucks:

"You poor dear. We're going to make you all better, don't worry."

* * *

 _The nation was shocked at the Reaping in District Ten, when the male tribute fainted onstage. This was not, as some suspected, the result of shock and excitement, but rather a symptom of severe malnutrition._

 _The Tribute, young Ren Manuel, has been deemed too weak to appear either for training or for interviews, and has been hospitalized on intravenous fluids for a minimum 48 hours._

 _In a stunning move, President Adrianna Yates has decreed that the 5_ _th_ _Annual Hunger Games will be postponed until this youngest Tribute should be fit to face the rigors of the arena._

 _I'm sure I join with everyone in honoring this merciful decision by our President, and in offering best wishes to young Ren._

* * *

"Another donation!" Renata claps her hands and spills the box across the table. Tins of ham and anchovies, jars with jewel-bright jellies, bakery-fresh bread with crumbling crusts, all join the mountains of food that countless donors have heaped at Ren's door.

"At this rate, you'll be the most popular Tribute in the Games!" she grins, scooping up a few fallen cans, "We'll have our pick of sponsors."

Ren can't reply, too busy tearing at a croissant dipped in silky-smooth chocolate. The slightly bitter sweetness melts into the salty richness of the bread; he crams the whole thing in his mouth in three enormous bites and chews with cheeks fuller than a field mouse.

Renata sighs. "Must I bring Doctor Hadrian back? He told you to avoid sweets and focus on protein. Carbohydrates are useless to build muscle."

"Dunno what those are," he manages to mumble around the pastry.

"They're—" she fumbles, "they're not things you should have when you're trying to be healthy. Everyone knows that."

He swallows hugely and burps. "Don't taste bad to me."

"Well," his escort shudders as he pulls the pastry box back across the table and takes out a millefeuille, "Perhaps not to a strong boy. But you are not strong, and you have only two weeks to change that. You should be on your knees thanking President Adrianna for the delay. The Games have _never_ been delayed before."

Chocolate and cream smear across his cheeks. "If she was _really_ nice, she'd lemme go home. And take somma this," he kicks a stack of tuna tins and they tumble like dominoes, "back with me."

"That's impossible," she scoffs, one pale hand pressed to her heart, "No Tribute has ever returned home. What would that do to the fabric of the Games and the very pillars our society rests upon?"

"Dunno," he burps again, grinning as she flinches, "Don't care."

* * *

 _A new development in the 5_ _th_ _Hunger Games: it seems Ren Manuel has recovered enough to attend training with the other Tributes!_

 _Now, ladies and gentlemen, you know I shouldn't spill secrets from training, but I can't help it! It seems our little Ren is making friends in high places...even, perhaps, with the traditional alliance between Districts One and Two._

 _That's what I love about the Games, folks. They're an inspiration, showing such cooperation and teamwork between the youngest members of our society._

* * *

Another package, straining at the strings of the silver parachute that hold it, lands just in time for dinner. Ren gets first pick—after all, the sponsors are interested in feeding him, not _them—_ and takes a bag of crostinis, his favorite caviar, and a packet of dried apricots for himself.

He pays for the elaborate meal with a wink and a grin at the camera planted in the overhang of the Cornucopia and digs into his dinner while the rest of the alliance—the girl from Four and the boy from One—divide the remaining spoils.

"So, who's left?" the girl asks, slurping at tinned oysters.

"Just the girl from Two," the boy replies, "and she can't last much longer without making a try for the food. We'll get her tomorrow at the latest."

"Hmm," the girl nods. Quick as a flash, she jabs the boy in the neck with a stilleto tucked between her fingers. He bleeds to death, fish-faced with shock, completely ruining a loaf of dense, dark rye.

Ren looks up, still chewing.

"Can I finish this first?" he asks. Half the eggs are still gleaming like black diamonds in the tin. "Be a shame to waste it."

The girl laughs, wiping her stilleto clean on District One's shirt. "Be my guest."

 ** **The male tribute from District Ten died on the eleventh day of the Games.****

 ** **He was killed by the female tribute from District Four.****

 ** **The female tribute from District Four was crowned victor after twelve days of combat.****


	4. District Four - Female

**District Four – Female - 32nd** **Hunger Games**

Sunrise shines golden on a gossamer veil of fine clouds spread over a cobalt sky. Shara's exhausted eyes brighten as she watches the light catch fire on the snowcapped mountain peaks that encircle the arena. How is it possible that dawn here can be as beautiful as it is back home? How can there be beauty in the middle of pain and death?

She frowns. It shouldn't. It's not right.

Maybe...

Shara turns away from the dawn and fans the flames of their campfire back to life. The thought follows her, irrepressible. Maybe her plan will work, and she can set some of these horrible wrongs right again. Hope wriggles in her stomach like a fish out of water, makes her queasy.

Speaking of fish, she buries a few from her catch last night in the cherry-red coals. Fate, though it hadn't smiled on her at the Reaping, _has_ favored her in an arena rich with rivers and lakes. The waters have saved her, and who knows? They might save the other four tributes still trapped in this hellish valley.

They're still alive. If she has anything to say about it, they'll _all_ stay that way.

The skins of roasting trout crackle and a rich, meaty flavor floats on the breeze. Betal, Kei, and Lucretia stir at the smell. With a few mumbled 'good mornings', they gather around the fire to eat.

Shara watches them as she'd watch a shark circling her at the crab traps. Carefully. Cautiously. She doesn't think they'll turn on her—or each other—until their final opponent is down, but a wild animal can act irrationally for any number of reasons.

After sixteen days in this barren bowl of rock and stream, they're all more animal than human.

"Any sign of him?" Betal throws the question to no one, eyes fixed on the coals.

"No," Shara replies. She's been on watch all night; this close to the end, her mind is too active for sleep. "I think he's hiding in the caves above the lake. But he'll need water; we can catch him now or wait until he comes for it."

Betal grunts and throws a handful of fishbones into the fire. They spark and blacken, curling together like the legs of a dying spider.

He stands, still hunched and stolid. "Get ready. I want this over with today."

Kei and Lucretia share a look and try to rope Shara into it. She licks dry lips and offers:

"It doesn't have to end today."

"Oh, sure," Lucretia grins, sensual and sprawling in the face of Betal's stark control. "We could keep this going as long as they'd let us. But it'd get old."

"Someone sounds afraid," Kei fixes her with a stare and Shara controls the primal instinct to flinch in the face of a barracuda.

She smiles. "Don't bet on it."

They're not animals. Not yet.

* * *

They find the boy from District Seven, the only one who's eluded them so far, and corner him.

She reads the signs of dehydration in his face; he wavers and swipes at them uncertainly with a machete that drags closer to the ground with every swing. He can't hold out very long, and is only still alive because the rest of the pack is in the mood to play.

"Come on, kid," Lucretia croons, "we'll make it easy. Or you can do it yourself. Just hold up that knife and let yourself roll."

"Enough," Betal grunts, "somebody do it."

Lucretia stalks forward, daggers ready and poised to duck under Seven's guard.

 _Now or never_.

"Wait!"

Everyone stops, though Seven's blade keeps swaying with momentum, regular as a metronome.

"What?" Betal's hand tightens on his mace.

She doesn't swallow, doesn't quail. She fixes them with an even stare and keeps her hand loose on her sword. "We don't have to do this. Think about it," she doesn't beg; it's important that she frames this as good for _them_. "We're safe here. We have food, shelter...and we have enough people for regular watches."

"You wanna live in here forever?" Lucretia sneers. "Is District Four really that provincial?"

"I'm talking about drawing this out until the gamemakers have no choice but to let us out," she counters, "I'm talking about more than one survivor of this nightmare."

"It won't work," Kei says, but his shoulders droop, relaxed. He's considering it. "They'll drop a bomb, or something. Wipe us all out."

"With all cameras broadcasting?" she's thought of this, she's thought of all objections, "How could they justify that to the Districts?"

"You'd—" Seven talks for the first time, and his weapon clangs and squeals against the granite, "you'd let me live?"

Shara tries to hold back her confidence, her hope, but it's rising in her like bubbles. "Yes," she says, smiling, "We'd need you—"

Seven's too tired and starved to react when Lucretia's dagger drives for his stomach, and Shara's too far away to do more than scream. Lucretia drags her knife from liver to throat, and Seven collapses onto the stone, hot blood steaming in the cool mountain air.

"Why?" Shara doesn't fall, but it's a close thing. "It will work! It'll work! I'm telling you, we can—"

Betal's hand closes around her throat; his arm fastens around her middle.

Shara can't summon breath for another word, but it doesn't matter. Words won't keep Lucretia's dagger from piercing her heart.

 ** **The female tribute from District Four died on the sixteenth day of the Games.****

 ** **She was killed by the female tribute from District One.****

 ** **The male tribute from District Two was crowned victor after eighteen days of combat.****


	5. District Twelve - Male

**District Twelve – Male – 63** **rd** **Hunger Games**

When he sidles up to the Career pack's table at lunchtime, they look at him like he's something unpleasant to scrape from their shoes. He doesn't mind…at least, he doesn't a _ct_ like he minds. After all, they don't know who he is.

Sure, Twelve might be a desolate backwater, but he's the butcher's son. He's no rube.

"Hey," he smiles, the easy smile that wraps everyone around his finger, "mind if I sit?"

"Sorry," Shimmer—he's memorized their names already—sneers, "table's full."

It's not, but he wasn't waiting for permission. He sits anyway.

"Listen," Marcus leans towards him, a solid wall of muscle menacing even in stillness, "not to be _rude_ , but we're not interested in another desperate pitch. We had enough from that twig from Nine. So why don't you take this and get gone. We'll be kind and forget about it."

"You don't wanna do that," he dips up a spoon of pumpkin soup. Delicious. "You don't know me yet, but you'll want to. My name's—"

"Victor, yeah," Helena laughs, "someone's parents got a little ahead of themselves, didn't they?"

"Maybe. Now, I'm not saying I'll be the Victor, but I've got a whole District behind me. Back home—"

"Lemme guess. You're the cleanest dirtbug on the heap. That's what you do in Twelve, isn't it?" Marcus opens the pepper shaker and pours the entire contents into Victor's bowl, "Dig in the dirt?"

His spoon shakes with rage, but he keeps eating. Okay. So they're tough. He'll win them over.

" _I_ don't," he sniffs, "My family's above all that."

"Not too far above. I can smell the kerosene on you," Helena mimes sniffing him and makes an exaggerated gagging face. The others laugh hysterically. "But hey, we could use a show with our meal. Tell us, Twelve…what have you got to offer?"

Finally. Now that he's got them on the line, he needs to play it cool. "Couldn't help but see that you guys don't really know how to handle your knives. Sure," he chuckles, "you could _probably_ kill someone at a few paces, but after that? Now, you saw how _I_ did at the knife station today," he winks at Shimmer, letting his blond hair fall rakishly over one eye. Girls loved that. "Pretty good, huh?"

"Oh, yeah," Shimmer leans forward and his heart flips; she's way prettier than any girl in Twelve, even the apothecary's daughter, "You _were_ pretty good. I mean, _I've_ been throwing knives since I could pick them up, but you're _so much_ _better_."

He jumps; her foot is sliding along his, out of sight under the table.

"Fine," Marcus isn't enthused, but Victor knows he's got his foot in the door. "But we need the sponsors to see how good he is. Get ranked 8 or above, and we'll talk again."

"No problem," and it won't be, "So, what do you guys do for fun back home?"

He chats with them throughout lunch, easy, charming, and clever. Everyone laughs at his anecdotes, ridiculing the poor slobs left behind in Twelve.

Rowan passes him as they empty their trays. She fixes him with solemn, gray Seam eyes and shakes her head.

"You idiot."

* * *

Rowan's the idiot. Victor gets ranked 9—how do you like _that_ , Haymitch?—and takes his place in the pack. The day of the Games, he's almost excited. District Twelve hasn't had a Victor in thirteen years, ever since their lush of a mentor won the second Quarter Quell. They're long overdue, and Victor's just the face District Twelve needs to rise in Panem's estimation.

He's tired of being known as a coal scuttle. Time to be a star.

They've worked out their strategy: claim the Cornucopia, kill anyone in their way, work from there. Inelegant but simple.

Victor does his part. Butchering a girl is hardly any different from slicing up a pig. He even manages to take down that colossus from Three, all by himself. It costs him the use of one arm but Victor's so brassed on adrenaline he doesn't even feel it.

Too bad Marcus got Rowan. He wanted to knife that judgmental bitch himself.

He joins the others around the Cornucopia, bloodied and beaming.

"Dirtbug, you made it!" Shimmer cheers. "I would have hated for anyone else to do _this_."

She's slashed his jugular before he even sees the knife move. The spray is so violent it washes her and a nearby bushel of apples in blood.

He gags and presses at the wound, fingers clumsy. They're laughing. How can they be laughing when Shimmer's a traitor?

"Aw, poor Twelve," Helena presses fingers to lips in feigned dismay, "you're dirty again. But then you're used to that, aren't you?" Her spear tears the long muscles of his arm; there's too much blood in his throat to scream.

"You thought you were one of us," Marcus' boot hits him like a sledgehammer, "but you're nothing more than a vain moron."

He moans, trying desperately to get away from the hail of blows. It's gone wrong; _how_ has it gone wrong? He's a killer, he's one of them!

Marcus is panting and red-faced, boots slick. "Your corpse'll stink up the place. Run away, Twelve."

Victor can't run, so he crawls. Crawls until the sand sucks up his last drops of life.

 **The male tribute from District Twelve died on the first day of the Games.**

 **He was killed by the female tribute from District Two.**

 **The male tribute from District One was crowned victor after six days of combat.**


	6. District Six - Female

**District Six – Female – 68** **th** **Hunger Games**

The morning shift comes to relieve her just after dawn. She smiles at Lee and hands over her crossbow. They only have one; nobody in the alliance was a strong enough fighter to survive the bloodbath. Still, they're lucky. Holding a fort like theirs without ranged weapons is tough, but it hasn't been impossible.

It _couldn't_ be impossible. Not after everything they've managed.

It's hard to believe they've come this far. For the first time she can remember, kids from the Districts are bound together by more than a blood pact, waiting for the opportune moment to gut, stab, or impale their erstwhile allies.

Their camp's rough and sparse, sure. There isn't much shelter; the one cave they managed to clear of nightmare splices only holds three, strictly reserved for the wounded. The healthy kids sprawl around on scraps. Salvaged tarps, gathered hay, pine branches, whatever they can find.

Still, with their backs up against a mountain and a barren plain spread in front, it's defensible. They don't have to worry terribly about the Careers.

Her stomach growls, a reminder of the laundry list of _other_ things to worry about.

"Any trouble?" Kayley—unofficial quartermaster—hands her a cup of root tea; it tastes of mushrooms but it's hot.

"You'd have heard if there were," she replies between sips. The camp's coming to life around them, but it's a slow awakening. Peaceful. Another victory scored. "Anything happen here?"

"That girl from Four is getting worse."

"Annie?"

"Yeah," Kayley sighs. "I wish we could do something to help her, but she's not _hurt_ , really. Just seeing Pleck go down..."

"I know," Lyala shivers, "I dragged her away from the body. I'd hoped…well. Okay. She'll recover once we're out of the arena."

"You still think this is gonna work?"

"It has to," she says, setting her shoulders. She has to believe it; she can't doubt and lead. "It's not like people haven't tried to put a peaceful alliance together in the Games before."

"Yeah, but I don't remember those alliances walking onto hovercrafts and living happily ever after," Kayley ladles some tea into Mavik's bowl.

"That's because those alliances never had leverage. They were either broken before they began or destroyed by infighting. And that won't happen to us," she finishes grimly, staring at her tea like it's about to contradict her.

"Relax, fearless leader. I trust you," she turns lotus roots in the coals and rotates a spit of possum fillets. "You brought us together, which I already thought was a longshot. Maybe you _will_ get us out."

"Thanks," it's hard to keep sarcasm out of her voice, but she manages. Kayley's fifteen and a spitfire—sneers at everything—but she's clever and too valuable to alienate.

Being a leader is a strange thing. Lyala's parents had a tiny stash of adventure novels, classics. She'd read them all countless times; stories of sea-captains and soldiers, Queens and saints. She'd absorbed their lessons, believing she understood the heart and soul of leadership.

She knows the truth now; being a leader is more like being a sentient fire-extinguisher.

Speaking of which…there's a scream from the caves and she runs to meet it, all thoughts of breakfast blotted out.

Rolly is holding Annie, that wasted girl who's done nothing but moan since her District partner was gutted before her eyes. They have nothing to soothe her with; Rolly's a medic's apprentice, but he can't sew together the mangled edges of her psyche.

"Can you keep her quiet?" it's an old question and Lyala's voice frays as she asks.

He shakes his head. "We're almost out of sedative," he struggles to keep her down; she might be crazy, but she's wiry and frantic.

" _Shit._ Here," she steps gingerly over the other wounded and adds her weight to Rolly's. Annie whimpers, high and tight like a wounded dog.

"Annie," she whispers, "we've got you. It's okay. You're safe."

It's odd to comfort a girl older than you are, but that's another truth about leadership. You do what you need to when it's needed.

"You're from District Four, right?" there's no reply, but her thrashing calms a bit, "I've never seen the ocean. It must be beautiful; all that water. Like if you swam far enough you could get away from everything. I can't swim," she chuckles, rueful, "no call for it in Six. We stick to the roads and the rails."

"Is…free," Annie's voice is so hoarse Lyala can barely hear, "When you swim…you're free."

"You'll be back there soon."

"No," she writhes again, feverish. "No way out. No way back."

At first she thinks Annie's screaming again, but it's too loud, too violent. A chorus of voices is rising in panicked intensity outside.

The camp's in chaos; kids are running wild trying to get away, but there's nowhere to go. The huge wave swallows the entire plain, and the mountains behind are too steep to climb.

Kayley stands by the fire, unmoved, munching on a scorched root. "I knew they wouldn't let you get away with it," she smiles at Lyala, too stunned to do anything but gape. "It was a nice dream though."

At least it's quick. She has an instant to think how cold the water is before it smashes her in its fist and slams her into the rocks.

 **The female tribute from District Six died on the twelfth day of the Games.**

 **She was killed in a tidal wave that flooded the arena.**

 **The female tribute from District Four was crowned victor after fourteen days of combat.**


	7. District Nine - Male

**District Nine – Male – 28** **th** **Hunger Games**

 _In conclusion, I want to express my gratitude to the Capitol for their generosity. As a new Victor, I had no idea how much they would care for my family—_

"I don't have a family."

"Oh," Lucilla sprays macaron crumbs, "it's just for show. A general expression of thanks."

"Yeah," he says, flipping through the twenty-five cards Lucilla shoved into his hands that morning, "Because we're all the same."

"If it bothers you, just change the word to 'friends'. You have some of _those_ , surely," sensing his foul temper readying to strike, Lucilla moves to a nearby decanter and pours him two fingers. He drinks it; of course he does. "But really my dear, you must learn to let these things just roll off. It's not worth all this drama."

"Sure. The Capitol hates drama."

"You are _lucky_ I managed to entice any sponsors at all, the way you behaved to the press!" she snaps, crocodile tears shining to rival the heavy mascara shellacked on her eyelashes. "I don't know why you do this to me, Maran. Everything is a battle with you."

He throws the glass and it shatters against the train's bulletproof windows. Lucilla squeals and throws both hands over her ridiculous sea-foam wig. As if a single shard could find its way around the towering heap of polyester curls.

The temptation to violence lies so close to the surface that his skin simmers with it. Flay her with the cheese knife. Drown her in bourbon. Feed her cake until the strapped-down waddles of her stomach burst like grenades.

Sponsors love that. Anyone can bash brains in with a rock or pierce hearts with a spear. But he had made himself an artist of death, and they had begged him for more.

Maran knows Victors like him, smoldering ruins that burn themselves out raging against the past, unfit to be seen, locked away in institutions. Bogeymen too fierce for the delicate sensibilities of Panem. He's balanced on the edge; falling is only a matter of time.

Lucilla peers at him through her fingers, but her fear is only playacting. She doesn't believe he'll hurt her; why would she? But he wants to; his hands tremble with the urge.

Blunt the edges. A swallow of whiskey isn't enough, but the bottle might be. He sweeps if off the table, carafes breaking in a waterfall of crystal and wine. Lucilla yelps, but she has the good sense not to twitter at him just then.

He stalks to his bedroom. The door's automated and won't give him the satisfaction of a slam, so he upends the side tables, tears the comforter from his bed, rips the curtains from the windows. It's not enough; he's still ticking.

Whiskey helps. Two, three, four swallows; he drinks until he's out of air, breathes, gasps, drinks again. Ten minutes later the liquor lands in his empty stomach and he reels, too uncoordinated to keep shredding the goose-down pillows.

He sprawls crosswise on the exposed box spring, watching the ceiling swing in lazy circles. The frantic tempo of his thoughts slows to something manageable, soap bubbles drifting up from the bath. One in particular floats just before his face and magnifies.

 _Gratitude_. He's not grateful; the Games have destroyed who he was and left a monster waiting to burst through his veins. The Capitol hasn't cared for him; _hadn't_ cared for him. And now they want to set him up on a pedestal and praise him for something he isn't.

Grateful. Loved. Human.

Something Lucilla said tugs at him, insistent despite the fog of whiskey. What is it?

 _Change the words_.

* * *

He's still hungover by the time they arrive in Twelve, and nothing about the District—from the oily reek in the air to the hangdog expressions of the people—does anything to ease his headache. He'd killed the girl from Twelve in one of his first forays into...well, the horrors that came later. It still haunts him, the way her teeth split her tongue when he'd hanged her.

Maran can tell that it haunts Twelve, too.

So it's a heavy atmosphere of sullen silence that greets him after the mandatory applause. He clears his throat, hands shaking as he pulls the cards from his pocket. The words are scrambled and uncertain, but he remembers the sense of righteous justice that filled him when he wrote, and he speaks from that.

"You want to kill me. If I could, I'd let you do it."

They don't startle, too tired, too numbed to suffering that it takes another few sentences for his words to sink in. Even the Peacekeepers don't react.

"What I did in the Games is unforgivable, and I won't ask you to forgive me. The Games may have made me kill those people, but the choice..." he can't cry, he _needs_ to get this out quickly before anyone thinks to stop him, "the choice to...do what I did was mine."

 _Now_ they're listening. He sees shock and confusion, but more than that, there's rage. He understands.

"I became a monster so that I could survive. It was the only way I could see to do it. I needed sponsors, and they liked what I did. I'm sorry."

He sees the lead cameraman cut the feed and, satisfied, allows Lucilla to drag him backwards off the stage.

"What are you _thinking_?" she squeals, trembling. "Do you have any idea what they'll do to us?"

"It doesn't matter."

A smile is unfamiliar on his face, but it feels right.

 ** **The victor from District Nine died during the Victory Tour.****

 ** **He committed suicide by hanging.****

 ** **The Victory Tour was canceled and a Retrospective of the Games was broadcast in its place.****


	8. District One - Male

**District One – Male – 66** **th** **Hunger Games**

"What the _hell_ , slug?"

Hadrian's shove catches Benedict hard; he sprawls face-first on the courtyard stones. While everyone watches—the warriors, the cowards, and the ones who don't matter—he has to get back up and walk to the stage.

Seething eyes follow his every step. If he were older, if the academy's training had had time to sink in, he would have walked proudly; head held high, lips curving in the smug smirk worn by all those lucky enough to be the winning Career. As it is, he creeps, tucked into himself like a frightened turtle. Benedict has never felt the disadvantage of his fifteen years so much as he does in that moment.

 _Are you afraid?_

He doesn't think so. They've beaten fear out of him in an endless procession of nighttime attacks, daily ambushes, and spars of sharpened edges.

 _Then why are you walking like an ape?_

His inner monologue sneers like Master Caius, but Benedict doesn't think about that any more; it's been that way for years. And it works; he straightens, throws out his meager chest, and climbs the stairs of the platform without stumbling.

Aurelia doesn't even glance in his direction. _Her_ pride is unfeigned. She's grinning; teeth bared, eyes fierce, black hair streaming behind her in a lion's mane. He can't help staring. She's glorious.

There's a question. He misses it; the disappointed hopefuls in the crowd set up a loud jeer at his expense.

The question's repeated: _what made you volunteer?_

"Glory," it's the same answer everyone gives, so typical that the boys laugh again, "Glory for my district."

 _And love_ , he says, following gladly once the ceremony ends and they're herded to the Hall of Justice. _I love her. When she volunteered, my fate was sealed._

 _And I don't care._

* * *

The Career pack's larger than usual that year, with bruisers joining from Districts as far away as Ten. Benedict barely makes the cut, certainly no thanks to Aurelia. Benedict hadn't known that her boyfriend was the person he interrupted to volunteer, but ignorance isn't an excuse with her. It takes the boy from Four to remind her that no one else on the team can shoot a bow.

Her indifference is the only thing that hurts him, even in this crucible of ever-increasing pressure. Swords, maces, axes...that's all old hat. But her apathy—and she really doesn't care whether he lives or dies—is an ache so rooted to the last soft spot in his heart that every breath threatens to dislodge something fatal within.

He keeps his own counsel until the interview. As first up, Benedict's savvy enough to know that he can't afford romance. He'll need something special to be remembered after twenty-three people's confessions have snowed him under. So he spills the secret he's been nurturing for three years. It does the trick.

 _How brave you are. A true romantic, willing to die for his love._

For the first time since they've known each other, Benedict feels like Aurelia really _sees_ him. But it's not love that softens the flint-stone glint of her black eyes.

It's pity.

* * *

The arena's different than any before, and it's not what anyone was expecting. The high-tech lightweight parkas they're given barely take the edge off the arctic wind, and the neon-orange sheen does no one any favors trying to dodge knives and arrows on the ice floes.

They take the Cornucopia because that was their plan, but it doesn't benefit them. The wide yawning mouth faces a bitter wind; they can't keep a fire lit to save their lives.

Literally. Two die the first night. Benedict survives because he follows Three's advice and buries himself in the snow. Even so, he can't bend his toes the next morning. Deadened toes make walking difficult, running impossible.

Aurelia's the one who suggests hunting the others, and everyone agrees. It _was_ their plan, after all...no one can think what else to do. They trudge over the barren wasteland for an hour, but their only prey is already dead. Lumps of orange fabric draped over frozen flesh dot the landscape. There's nothing worth looting from anyone.

They manage to survive for another two nights, their comrades dropping off in the slow silence of hypothermia.

 _Are you afraid?_

He's not; it's too cold for fear. Like his extremities, his emotions are long lost to frostbite; he can't feel fear any more than his fingers.

It's on that last night—when all their companions have either fallen to sleep or to the frigid fingers of stalking death—that she speaks to him.

"You must feel like an idiot," her teeth are chattering so that it takes his numbed ears a while to work out her meaning. She smiles, rueful and mocking. It's an odd mix, but her expressive features pull it off.

He loves her face. His death will be a painless one if he can watch her as he goes.

She's not expecting a response, but he wants her to know his truth.

"No," he shapes the word by memory alone; his lips are torn and his tongue's a block of ice. "I meant it."

"Did you?"

He nods. This is the moment to make his "move", any move, but he can't even extend a hand.

"I never said two words to you before today."

"I don't care," his thoughts come slowly, running choked in an ice-throttled river, "You deserved love."

 ** **The male tribute from District One died on the third day of the Games.****

 ** **He froze to death.****

 ** **The female tribute from District Eleven was crowned victor after four days of combat.****


	9. District Two - Female

****District Two – Female – 49**** ** **th**** ** **Hunger Games****

"I can't—" Celara's mother Gerla presses trembling fingers to pale lips, stifling wheezing sobs, "I will _never_ be able to repay you for this. You've saved her life. My baby..."

Words are hard to push through the white haze of fear and panic that shrouds her, but she does her best. "She's my best friend," Telara murmurs, bundling her arms together. "I—she—I just had to."

"Bless you," Gerla throws herself around Telara. She stands and takes it, grim as a statue as hot tears drip down the back of her neck. "I will pray for you. Everyone tells me your training is going so well...I'm sure you have a chance. A _good_ chance," she pulls away, tears still streaming, an uneven smile of gratitude and fear struggling to shine clear.

Telara swallows. Her Peacekeeper training is such a betrayal...Celara won't think it an advantage. She'd locked herself away for a week after Telara enrolled, but what could she have done? She needs the money. Still does; her mother's dying, her brother's back is ruined, and all the tesserae in Panem can't help pay the doctor.

It hits her then that neither of them can have heard the Reaping's results yet.

"Will you tell my mother what happened? If they take me away before—" she chokes, clears her throat.

"Of course, dear," Gerla says, "and I promise, I will do my best to take care of them while—while you're gone."

Telara nods, digging ragged nails into her arms so she doesn't scream. "Thank you. And...tell Celara I said goodbye."

"She would have come herself, but—"

"No! It's not safe for her. If they find out about her—"

"I know. She wanted to see you, but I told her...she needed to respect your sacrifice."

She can't breathe. A sacrifice, that's what this is, that's what _she_ is, and she's not coming back from this, not ever—

The Peacekeepers guarding the room have to drag Gerla away. Telara remains just where she fell, head pressed against the floor, arms wrapped so tight around her shoulders that each breath is a tortured whistle in her throat.

No one else comes to see her. The time serves its purpose, though; she can get on the train without any more hysterics.

* * *

"So, Telara. Preliminaries aside, I understand you come into this competition with...a bit of an edge, shall we say? Something that explains your...interesting hairstyle?"

"Yes," her smile is practiced, cocky, full of teeth, "I'm in my second year at ASPP, the Academy of Security and Peace in Panem. The buzzcut is standard."

"And do you enjoy that?"

"I get to use automatic rifles and learn hand-to-hand combat," the audience laughs and she cringes inside. _Please, Celara, don't listen to this._ "What's not to like?"

Jubal laughs long and loud. "I think a lot of teenagers would envy you, that's for sure. But you volunteered at seventeen, when another year would have given you even more of an advantage. And I know that a lot of us here in the Capitol were wondering...is there a story there?"

Truth itches at her tongue. But her truth isn't a safe one. She _has_ to keep publicity away from her friend. If anyone finds out about her epilepsy, she'll only have one career option. And a life hauling and cutting stone will destroy her.

Telara won't let that happen.

So she shrugs. "I would have, but...my mother's sick and I want the best care for her. Winning the Games would set us up for life."

Applause, wilder than before. Funny how the Capitol seems to value family when they happily tear so many apart. Telara bows graciously.

"Well, your mother must be a lovely woman. I'm sure we'll enjoy meeting her in person _when_ ," he winks, "you make the final eight. The female tribute from District Two, ladies and gentlemen, the lovely Telara Pritch!"

* * *

 _What did Jubal mean, they'd meet my mother?_

 _It's a new thing they're trying. Adds human interest. Once there's only eight tributes left, the Capitol sends an army of reporters to drum up everything they can about you. Family, friends, old boyfriends, teachers...they cut everything together into a lovely little montage. Got anything juicy hiding in your closet?_

The first days in the arena, Telara fights because she just can't lie down and die. For years, every moment of every day has been about survival. Her heart's raging desire to beat isn't dampened, not even by the sure knowledge that if she _truly_ wants Celara safe, it will have to stop. Soon.

Tributes dwindle day by day as the memory of her escort's words grow louder and louder. The Capitol will talk to _everyone_. Find out _everything._ If Celara has a fit while being interviewed...

This arena is bounded by a lake so vast Telara can stand on the shore and not see land on the horizon. Each night she's camped by the waterline, hoping that a new dawn will touch her and find her ready. To do what she planned. To be a sacrifice.

In the end, she accomplishes the unthinkable by not thinking.

There are rocks smooth as eggs and just as white lying on the shore. The moon's a pearl, shining its silvered path on midnight waves. The night Telara discovers she's the ninth tribute living, she fills her jacket with stones and follows that starlit path, breathing deep even as the water closes above her head.

 ** **The female tribute from District Two died on the seventh day of the Games.****

 ** **She drowned in the arena's lake.****

 ** **The female tribute from District Six was crowned victor after ten days of combat.****


	10. District Eight - Female

**District Eight – Female – 2** **nd** **Hunger Games**

It isn't going to happen again. They've made a pact, all of them. Every eighteen-year-old in Eight. No matter what, it isn't going to happen again.

Rakka's little brother had been taken last year, dragged from his sibling's arms to a chorus of piercing screams like shattered glass.

Nella had stood just a few rows behind and remembers every lurid detail. They'd all been too shocked to move, looking around for parents who stood afraid and defeated. Rakka had fought and had his arm and jaw broken; he died from blood poisoning when the District surgeon refused to set the splintered bones.

And his brother...that gentle kid, soft as a puppy, hadn't lasted a day in the Games.

The pact isn't Nella's idea, but she believes in it. If their parents are cowed by guns, they won't be. The peacocks in the Capitol need the fancy clothes their factories produce, it's not like the Peacekeepers will gun them down. Not while the cameras are rolling. They're too important.

That said, the Peacekeepers haven't made it easy for them. Somehow in the weeks before the Reaping their plan leaked and two of the ringleaders were arrested. Messages passed more slowly after that, concealed between pages in textbooks or traced in the schoolyard's packed dirt, swiftly wiped away. Nella's done her fair share of organizing, so that now her heart flips over in a nauseating plunge when she catches the barest flash of white.

On the morning of the Reaping, she walks to the courtyard in front of the newly-constructed cement monstrosity that is the Hall of Justice. What a joke. There's no justice there. It's the home of the liaison government, lit up every night with lights and music for Capitol bigwigs. Feasts and parties, while children go to bed hungry because their parents owe back taxes.

It makes her sick. Just looking at that gray monolith standing so blank and cold against the warm blue sky fans her rage.

Fifty kids of every age are chosen for the Reaping this year, most clutching each other for an illusion of safety. But every eighteen-year-old walks into the courtyard alone. Standing together would be suspicious; instead, they range around the outskirts, lock-jawed, stolid. Nella doesn't look at anyone else, keeps her eyes fixed on the stage where a painted nymph waits, tapping manicured nails on a slim bundle of notecards. To each side of the stage are enormous screens, where their frightened faces are reflected in a choppy whirl of jump-cuts.

There have to be a dozen cameras floating around the yard.

She smiles, hard and tight. Perfect.

The lady gives her glinting microphone a jaunty _tap-tap_. Everyone tenses; the Peacekeepers might as well have their guns trained on the crowd.

Nella hopes she won't vomit.

"Greetings all!" the woman trills, exaggerated features contorting into a smile. "And welcome. Welcome to the 2nd Annual...Hunger Games!"

She throws her arms up as though expecting applause, and Nella actually thinks she means it. The idiot woman really believes they'll cheer for this pageant of slaughter. Her stomach flutters with a perverse urge to giggle.

"Dumb bitch," someone mutters, and a ripple of curses and insults trickles through the crowd.

Disconcerted by the lack of response, the woman clears her throat and her hands flutter over the cards. With a prissy 'hem-hem', she clears her throat and continues.

"As decreed by the Peace that ended the old world's dreadful civil war and established the new country of Panem, the Hunger Games are to be a lasting reminder and penance for the Districts," she drops a card and flushes under a swell of derisive chuckles. Peacekeepers shift where they stand and Nella's smile evaporates.

"Each year, one male and one female Tribute between the ages of twelve and eighteen are to be Reaped, chosen to compete in a competition to the death. Thus do we remember our terrible history, and thus do we ensure a lasting peace. Panem honors your sacrifice, and we wish the odds to be ever in your favor."

Silence and scuffling. Somewhere a child moans with every breath. No one soothes her.

"We will begin with the..." she trails off, because they've moved.

As one, the teenage sentries on the perimeter step together, linking their arms and herding the younger kids inside. Locked into position, Nella's muscles go rigid. She can't turn to see who is standing beside her. She can only move forward until they're shoulder-to-shoulder with barely room to breathe.

"Thi—This is not permitted! Stand back at once!" she stamps her slippered foot. "At once, I say!" Even with the microphone, her voice has no power.

Someone laughs, jeering, rude. It spreads, infectious, until they're all hysterical; mouths gaping, screaming with laughter.

Nella can't stop even when staring down a wall of rifles raised and cocked.

"I warn you," she scolds like a frustrated teacher, "this will not be permitted! The Reaping must go on!"

"No!"

The cry comes from her at the same instant it shrieks from four or five kids all over the courtyard. They yell, holler, squeal; always the same word. No. _No._

They won't go quietly to their deaths. They won't let the Capitol drag one more child to a brutal end.

Nella hears gunshots but doesn't feel two bullets melting through her flesh. She only feels a sudden weakness as she reels, dizzy, cold. So tightly packed against the others, she can't fall even when life slips away.

 ** **Thirty-six children died in the District Eight Reaping Riots.****

 ** **A male and female tribute were Reaped from the survivors.****

 ** **The male tribute from District Eleven was crowned victor after twenty days of combat.****


	11. District Seven - Female

**District Seven – Female – 55** **th** **Hunger Games**

They leave her alone on her cold slab long after the other tributes have shuffled away. Lathered, waxed, plucked, she feels rather like a naked chicken in a butcher shop window. A dead thing meant for mindless consumption.

Vestra shivers beneath a thin blanket and wonders what they've found. A tumor, maybe? But why would they care? She'll die in the arena long before any disease kills her. In a way, it's almost comforting to know that her parents won't have to watch her waste away. Nope, she'll die quick and clean. Maybe. Hopefully.

Minutes spent tracing rows of fluorescent ceiling lights lulls her into a trance. When her beauty team comes back into the cubicle, she starts and pulls the blanket up to her neck.

Her District mentor Ris is with them, heavy jowls quivering with rage. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"Fourteen," she sneers, "A little young to get knocked up, isn't it?"

Vestra shoots upright and bares crooked teeth. Ris might look like a grandmother, but she's a cast-iron bitch and everyone knows it. And Vestra will be damned before she lets _anyone_ talk to her like this.

"Guess not," her chin jerks high, "since I am."

"Huh! At least you've got the guts to admit it. Well, what now?" this last to the team, who scatter like a flock of frightened birds, painted nails fluttering and neon lips chirping nonsense. After a few moments, Ris holds up one hand to still the chatter.

"Never mind. I should have known y'all would have been useless. Come on, girlie," Vestra whips her hand away before she can touch it, "get dressed. Let's see what we can do."

"What do you mean?" she's too angry to be hopeful, "They won't postpone the Games for anybody. Besides, you don't care about my baby," Vestra knots a robe tight around her and hurries to keep pace, "and you don't care about me. So why bother?"

"Sure I don't," she gives a rusty chuckle, "but I _do_ care about making fools outta them. Raising a little hell now and again keeps me young. You in?"

For the first time since the Reaping, Vestra smiles. It's a wicked thing, white and ravenous as a timber wolf's hungry grin, and it gives her courage. "Yeah. Let's do it."

* * *

Ris puts the devil's fear in the team to keep their lips sealed, and she tells their escort nothing at all. But Vestra has the hardest job of all hiding her morning sickness; the Capitol's rich food irritates her fragile guts. She vomits twice after each meal.

Together, she and Ris make their plans, rehearsing night after night in her locked bedroom. They run through a dozen dresses, each one eliminated for being too saucy, sexy, or short. Ris has a surprising skill for makeup; they settle on a delicate rose palette that makes her look blooming and young. Most of all, Vestra practices stripping her voice of that acid edge that makes her so unlikable.

They need people to like her. To pity her. To sympathize. Poor little girl, in over her head. Poor little girl, who loves a dead boy. Poor dead boy, whose memory will disappear forever if his child goes unborn.

It makes her sick. But Ris is canny and clever and she believes this will work.

So Vestra walks onstage, hands clasped nervously, a demure vision in silvery chiffon that froths down to her ankles. The audience, inured to skin and flash, coos in delighted appreciation as she gives a little wave and hunches down in her chair.

Caesar tosses a few easy questions; she gives simple answers. Then the questions turn to romance; for girls, they always do.

She confesses. "Maybe it was wrong, but Jem and I loved each other so much. If we hadn't...before he died, I would have regretted it."

The audience catches her meaning and sighs in cathartic agony. Caesar clicks sympathetically and tries to follow up, but she cuts him off:

"But now," one hand rubs her stomach, "maybe it was a mistake. I can't bear," her voice cracks and she can't tell whether she's acting anymore, "my baby..." one lone tear sparkles before she covers her face and weeps.

* * *

There are protests, petitions, a special committee convened in her honor. But the fuss ends as Vestra somehow knew it would. Once, even condemned witches had been spared for childbirth. Now, not even a frightened girl is accorded the same privilege.

But that isn't the end of it.

The night before the Games, two Peacekeepers and a doctor come to their suite and haul her away. Vestra fights so hard they have to sedate her; hours later she wakes confused, lying naked on a cold slab, with a deep throbbing ache between her legs and a tearing ache in her heart.

She realizes what they've done before the doctor tells her.

* * *

"Why?"

It's her first word since the operation.

Ris zips up her jacket and stands back, considering. "I guess they thought you might win. If you did, they didn't want a baby around to remind the Capitol they put a pregnant girl in the Games. That's what you've gotta do," she cries, "win! Rub it in their faces, tell everyone what they've done!"

Vestra steps into the pod waiting to lift her into the arena. Turns. Shakes her head.

"I don't care," it's true and it's horrible, "If they took...they'll take everything else. My parents. My friends."

She kneels.

"I can't fight them. I won't."

 ** **The female tribute from District Seven died on the third day of the Games.****

 ** **She died of dehydration.****

 ** **The male tribute from District Three was crowned victor after five days of combat.****


	12. District Five - Male

**District Five – Male – 43** **rd** **Hunger Games**

The first time the President invites him to bed, it's the night of his eighteenth birthday.

He's drunk on good wine, some of it older than the nation of Panem itself, dusty bottles bearing labels from extinct countries like "California" and "New York". Bodies press against him from all sides, touching and caressing, a dazzling rainbow of lips and eyes smiling promises that quicken in his intoxicated blood. It's overwhelming and he stumbles out to the balcony, dizzy, breathless, a little bit sick.

She finds him there, elegant and cool as a pillar of ice, blonde hair piled high and draped white gown slipping off one shoulder. Her smile wraps them in a private world; when she offers to take him away from the bacchanal, he follows gratefully.

It isn't until they're sitting together on the edge of her bed and one hand slides up his thigh that Geero realizes what she wants. He fumbles and rolls away, words tripping over each other as he explains that he has a girlfriend back home and he's sorry but he'd better go and thanks for the party it was great.

She smiles and watches him leave, remarking only that his girlfriend must be very lucky. He can't agree; the Games have made a mess of him. _He's_ the lucky one. She's stayed to clean him up.

Two nights later he gets the news.

Horrible accident. Snapped safety harness. Washed off the edge of the dam. No one's found her body.

* * *

The second time he refuses her, it's four months later and he's mentoring for the first time.

It's awful beyond words. Geero won his Games because of quick brains and a huge arena advantage. Unlike most Games—staged in ruins or the wild—his was in the crumbling remains of a sheet metal factory. A factory with working electricity and tons of mothballed equipment.

He can't guarantee that any of the tricks he used will be relevant this year. If it comes down to a straightforward brawl...they're kids. He can't save them.

Worse still, they don't make a good showing at evaluations, scoring a four and a six. What sponsors he'd managed to interest before slip away. They're on their own.

President Winchell invites him to dinner that night. _Forget your troubles, if only for an hour. I've just received a shipment of that Riesling you liked so much._

He goes, depression overwhelming trepidation. Last time must have been a mistake. She might have been drunk; she didn't look it, but she might have been. And besides, she's the _President_! She couldn't possibly be hung up on _him_.

At first, dinner goes smoothly. She makes him laugh despite himself, soothing his fears with assurances. _He's so clever. So strong. Any tribute of his would have a devoted mentor._

It becomes easier to believe her after the second bottle of wine. And that's when she sidles closer, takes his chin between grasping fingers, and kisses him.

At first he's too shocked to pull away. Then her tongue's in his mouth and he's dizzy on her perfume and _her hand is_ —

He can't manage an excuse or an apology as he runs from the room.

A week afterward, both his tributes are dead. So is his brother.

Horrible accident. Fell from a lift repairing a power line. Closed casket funeral.

* * *

The third time, he doesn't refuse. When her clutching hands fasten around him, Geero follows her lead. Thankfully for the knife tucked into his boot, she's focused on one thing.

It's odd. When he stabs her, she actually looks shocked. Maybe she is. Who knows how long she's been doing this. How many people she's—

Geero stares at her body and wonders that he feels nothing. In the Games, each of his kills drowned him in shame and self-loathing. But he's just murdered the President of Panem and the only feeling that makes him drop the knife and pull up his pants is _embarrassment_. That he might be caught half-naked with bloodstained underwear tangled around his ankles.

Dressed, Geero sits on a plush sofa across from the bed, gathers his knees to his chest. Twelve hours later, that's how the maid finds them.

* * *

His trial rivals the Hunger Games for ratings. It's broadcast throughout the Districts and he's told that crowds gather each night to watch the proceedings. He wonders who they're rooting for. Just like the Games, there are no heroes in this story.

The lawyer for Panem pulls out all the stops. In speeches overflowing with fire and brimstone, he paints Geero as a deviant, implies he abused both tributes under his charge, brings witness after witness claiming he'd harassed Winchell before. She was a saint for humoring him; her pity killed her.

Geero's own lawyer is only a prop in this circus, there to provide a veneer of legality. He argues insanity. Let Geero be locked away, studied, to avoid such tragedies in the future. The crowd froths and boos every time he stands to speak; the jury can't even hear his arguments enough to be moved.

But there's dead silence in the court when Geero takes the stand.

"President Winchell made repeated advances to me. Each time I did, someone I loved died."

There's so much screaming in the room the judge orders it cleared.

"I don't know if she was doing it, but I killed her to make it stop."

Cameras zoom in close.

"I'm guilty, but I'm not sorry."

 ** **The victor from District Five was convicted of the murder of President Winchell.****

 ** **He was executed by firing squad.****

 ** **All allegations made against the President were cleared by internal investigation.****

* * *

 ** **FIN****


End file.
